She just absolutely needs the blindfold, she says. Nothing else makes her quite so brave.
shy
I think I might be too shy to be fucked in front of a mirror, though I guess there’s only one way to find out.
The other day I was hanging around with Pup when I got onto the subject of how okcupid has infinitely slim pickings where we are “It’s about 98% gross dudes,” I explained, “and then girls who aren’t interested in all my crap.” That crap being kink and poly.
I pulled up my account to demonstrate, when he pointed out a very cute girl with a high match percentage. “What about her?” he asked.
“Well, that’s new,” I said. “She’s probably not into poly girls or girls who aren’t just gay or into kink.” We opened her profile. She was. “Well, I’m not messaging her,” I said. “I’m shy.”
Pup patted my knee. “You’re going to message her right now.”
I kept insisting there would be some osort of a catch and went through another page of her questions. Eventually, Pup lost patience and said, “you’re messaging her in the next five seconds or I’m giving you a beating.”
I huffed. “Maybe I want a beating.”
“You’re getting a beating either way,” he said. “It’s up to you whether it’s one you enjoy or one that doesn’t stop until you start crying.”
I ended up sending her one of the most awkward, shy, stilted little messages. I even admitted in the message that it was awkward, shy and stilted. But, she responded really warmly and we exchanged phone numbers. Now, we’re getting coffee today.
Eek.
It was my first time going over the border and I was going through the usual questioning from customs. But, I was prepared. I’d memorized the address, I had my passport out and ready, I had my return ticket at hand in case he needed to see it.
“Have you been to Canada before?” he asked, checking my passport.
I shook my head. “No, I haven’t.”
“So, how do you know your friend, then?"
The long of it is that she was my very first follower the night I started my tumblr back in 2011 and I had no idea what I wanted from just about anything in my life. In particular, the kink stuff all had suddenly rushed into my life, coagulated into something completely indecipherable. I was starting to understand the idea that I didn’t have to hide and that I could get what I wanted, but both concepts overwhelmed me pretty equally.
And so when I found tumblrs like hers – of people off doing the things I’d thought were totally unreasonable and impossible and just functioning – I thought I’d throw myself into the fray and see what came of it. I followed a bunch of the blogs I’d been lurking around. And she followed me back.
For the better part of a week, she was my only follower, generously liking stuff while I awkwardly tried to negotiate being able to vocalize my sexuality. We exchanged asks, which turned into emails, which turned into detailed exchanges about the things we didn’t feel we wanted to elaborate about on our blogs.
And weirdly, she started taking on the caregiver/Daddy role without either of us realizing it. She listened when stuff got bad or weird or just plain old disastrous. When I was too shy to post pictures of myself, I sent them to her first to try to practice being brave. After she’d encouraged me, I’d post them up.
And, yeah, I had a high-functioning crush on her. But, more than that, I’d developed an honest friendship with a really admirable, open person who was on a pretty similar adventure.
Fast forward to this past summer, when I was in a tinychat with her and the topic of femme Daddies came up. Or maybe it was the fact that I wanted a Daddy? But there was some joking that had turned into a series of "but, really"s that turned into a dynamic we’d been unconsciously pantomiming already.
I looked up at the customs officer and blushed. ”…Internet.“
He smirked. "Okay, move along.”
Sweetheart got brave and invited a little friend over for some fun,
but the second the door swung open, she got a little bashful.
And to think, Sweetheart used to be so bashful about talking to pretty girls.
Ivy’s First Trip to a Dungeon, Part Six
Eventually, Craftsmate let me out of the cage and we decided to hang around for a little bit away from the play areas. I stayed on the leash, but that was about the farthest thing from strange considering the environment we were in. Which, all things considered, set me at ease. It was nice to feel a little bit normal.
Across the play area, there was a girl in a pair of absurdly high pink heels reclined in a chair, checking her phone. Beside her was a bag, out of which a number of nasty-looking floggers and whips were sticking out. Even if she looked a bit disinterested in everything, she was still gorgeous.
Craftsmate caught me staring.
“I like her shoes,” I explained quickly.
He smirked. “Oh yeah? Her shoes? Why don’t you go over and tell her?”
“No, no, no, no,” I insisted, shaking my head emphatically. “I don’t want to disturb her or anything.”
“Do you want me to go over there and ask if she wants to borrow you?” He asked, smiling in the kind of way to suggest that he was not even remotely bluffing.
“No!” I squealed and Craftsmate started laughing.
“Fine,” he replied, “you get off easy this time.”
“Let’s go for a walk,”
I said, “the river is beautiful when it snows.”
You agreed, and we bundled up to face the wind. As we were about to head out the door, however, I pulled you aside.
“Today, I think I just want to enjoy the scenery,” I said as I produced a ball gag and padlock from my coat pocket, “There’s plenty of time for conversation when we get back.”
Your eyes grew wide as I pulled the scarf away from your face, slipped the gag between your teeth, and locked it in place with a satisfying “tink” before carefully arranging your scarf so as to hide the gag from prying eyes.
“There, don’t you look beautiful?” I inquired. You replied with nothing more than a muffled groan, but it was too late, we were already out the door.
I took the lead and blazed a trail through the slush covered sidewalks over to the coffeeshop. Just a few blocks away, it was a short detour on our walk to the river.
Despite a muffled protest, I led you inside. “Can I get you something?” the barista asked.
“I’ll have a large coffee, um, black, and she’ll have a hot cocoa,” I replied, looking at you.
The barista then turned to you and asked, “Do you want whipped cream on that, darling?” You nodded silently and then indulged me by turning six shades of red.
The rest of the walk to the river was relatively uneventful. Not many people were out enjoying the snow, preferring, apparently, the relative comfort of a sofa and fireplace to the damp squalor of freshly salted sidewalks. Along the way I attempted to make conversation, saying perhaps, “See how that icicle is reflecting the light?” or, “I love their holiday decorations,” but you never offered up much of a response, other than a glare or a finger pointed at your mouth. “What a tough crowd,” I’d then say, prompting, of course, another piercing glare.
To Be Continued
This is the kind of stuff I want but I am entirely too shy to ask for.
And also a little too shy to endure.
I love the superfluous lock. It’s not like she’s going to be at liberty to be able to take this thing off in public anyway. It adds that extra sense of the loss of control that makes it really, really hot.